


The First, the Last, and Somewhere In Between

by ImDie



Category: Dear Evan Hansen - Pasek & Paul/Levenson
Genre: Anxiety, M/M, Tumblr Prompt, and stuff like that, conner is angeryTM, literally no idea what im doing, oh right i should be doing tags, saveevanhansen, yes i spelled angry like that on purpose in case you don't know that meme
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-01
Updated: 2017-07-01
Packaged: 2018-11-21 18:47:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11363415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImDie/pseuds/ImDie
Summary: Based on the tumblr prompt from @fanficy-prompts:"Promt for sad/angsty fics: Take your favorite couple and write one (or more) one-shot(s) describing “the first time and the last time” they did something together. Might contain:- the first and the last time they saw each other- the first and the last time they kissed- the first and the last word they said to each other"





	The First, the Last, and Somewhere In Between

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Connor says his first words to Evan. It doesn't go well, but when do things for Evan ever do?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- First time ever writing a fic  
> \- I wrote this and am posting it without editing it bc edge  
> \- sry I wrote this when I was sleepy and fueled by my love for my sons  
> -no idea where I'm going with this I was just bored  
> \- this seemed like a good idea at the time??  
> \- looking back at it i hate- but why not hAh

Evan couldn’t help the rising dread in the pit of his stomach or the nervous twitch of his hands as he glanced sideways at the dim computer screen. The words of his therapist echoed in his head in an endless mantra. He had to write this note now. It would help him get better... wouldn't it?

That was obviously bullshit. A letter won’t do anything to help the years and years of the crushing anxiety that keeps him from having any friends.

Who was he kidding? It wasn’t the anxiety’s fault - if that was even possible - it was his fault. Entirely his. He was gross. It’s no wonder no one wants to be friends with him. No wonder no one signed his cast. No wonder the only person resembling a friend is told to act like it by his parents. No wonder no one would have cared if that tree was just a bit higher-

With a violent shake of his head he slowly unclenched his trembling fists, trying his best to ignore the crescent marks forming on his palms and the ghostly white of his knuckles. He took a deep breath and refocused his watering gaze to the screen. He could not go down that path, not right now. He braced his twitching fingers over the keyboard, pausing a moment to look around the computer lab. Empty. All clear.

He didn’t really think while he was typing. It was just a random jumble of thoughts in his head he needed needed needed to get out. It came out in a confusing unorganized mess. He wrote about how he thought it would be a bad year, the complete opposite of what his therapist told him to write, but who was the doctor to tell him what to do, to understand what he was going through. He couldn’t. Nobody could. He continued to write his theory that no one would even notice if he was absent, much less gone, forever. His hand drifted from the outdated keyboard down to his arm where he unconsciously felt the rough fabric of his cast run beneath his fingers.

I let go.

And finally, he wrote about Zoe. Zoe Murphy. The one hope he had left. The one unrealistic hope, that is. He didn’t know why his brain categorized her as a “hope.’ Because, really, he had never really had a conversation with her, save for the one altercation he had with her brother Connor. He quickly managed to hit the print button in his deep thoughts.

He just couldn’t help himself. She was beautiful. He loved that subtle smile of hers, he loved the little stars on the cuffs of her jeans, he loved the way she danced, he loved h-

I loved-

A bang interrupted his borderline stalker rambling that was leading to a dangerous place. Evan let out a yelp and turned his head, slipping from his chair in the process. He crashed against the cheap carpeted floor, landing on his cast in a painful reminder that he was unwanted. Looking up weakly, he took in the sight of what caused the disturbance.

Oh. He thought lamely.

Impeccable timing. Truly perfect. Standing in the doorway, looking more calm than before, but intimidating nonetheless, was Connor Murphy. He moved his emotionless gaze over to Evan, who was, pathetically, still on the floor.

“H-hi,” he stuttered from below. Was it his position on the floor or Connor’s gaze that made him feel so small?

Connor surveyed him with a low gaze before moving his shoulders in what seemed like a shrug and continued his way past the doorframe. The silence was crushing, weighing down on his chest. It was drowning h.

The incessant creaking from the old printer in the computer started up. The sound seemed monumental in comparison to the previous stillness. He and Connor both flicked their eyes to the printer, yet Evan was a bit more startled. If Connor was surprised by the noise, he didn't let on. He, out of curiosity or who knows what, made his way over to the source of noise. Evan was too distracted by the intrusion that he didn’t react to Connor’s increasing proximity to the letter. Before it was too late, that is.

Those dark cold, yet somewhat beautiful eyes pierced him with an intense and somewhat accusatory gaze.

“What the actual fuck, Hansen.”


End file.
